


Domestic

by cypress_tree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-16
Updated: 2012-09-16
Packaged: 2017-11-14 09:43:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/513900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cypress_tree/pseuds/cypress_tree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock always leaves the kitchen table a mess, despite John repeatedly asking him to clean up after himself.  Eventually, they get into a bit of a domestic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Domestic

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授權翻譯】Domestic <餐桌上的調教授業>](https://archiveofourown.org/works/637046) by [Jawnlock123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jawnlock123/pseuds/Jawnlock123)



> Written as part of the [johnlockchallenges](http://johnlockchallenges.tumblr.com/) gift exchange, for [phinm,](http://phinm.tumblr.com/) who requested something cute, fluffy, and domestic. Of course, "domestic" has more than one meaning, so this is Sherlock and John acting domestic while having a domestic.

Sherlock was notorious for leaving the kitchen table a mess.

It was a mess when John first moved in. It was still a mess after he asked Sherlock to clean it for the first time. It was a mess when John saw Sherlock sitting there, smiling delightedly over a drop of blood, and realized that he had more-than-platonic feelings for his flatmate. It was a mess a few days later, when John caught Sherlock staring at him through the reflection in the window, and realized those feelings were reciprocated.

It was still a mess late one night, when they came home with an adrenaline rush and had sex for the first time half on top of it. That night had seen the birth of a new relationship, and the death of six Petri dishes, two of which contained some form of mould. John had put the shattered pieces of a clean one inside a sandwich bag, and kept it stuck to the refrigerator with a strong magnet. It was supposed to serve as a reminder of the perils of a messy kitchen table, but it really just reminded them both of how much fun spontaneous sex on a table could be. John had once tried to ban table-sex until it was clear again, but that hadn’t worked. They had given in after three weeks. John still maintains that Sherlock seduced him.

They were coming up on a whole year of never having seen the full surface of the kitchen table, and really, it was getting to be ridiculous.

 

\---

It was Sunday morning. John woke up to find himself alone, with Sherlock’s side of the bed cold. This wasn’t unusual, as Sherlock had an experiment going, and was loathe to have a lie-in while results could be examined. John gave a luxurious stretch before pulling on a sweatshirt and wandering down the hall.

As expected, Sherlock was at the kitchen table, staring into his microscope. He was completely and impeccably dressed, which was unusual for 9:00 on a Sunday morning. He didn’t move when John came in. John leaned against the refrigerator and looked at him.

“You went out,” he said.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked. “And how did you come to that conclusion?”

“It’s 9:00 on a Sunday morning and you’re already dressed. Usually you walk around half naked until noon on Sundays. You’re not wearing shoes, but your trouser legs are damp. It hasn’t rained, so that’s probably morning dew from the grass you cut through along the way. And you must have gotten back recently, since your trousers haven’t dried yet.”

Sherlock pulled away from his microscope to look at John with one raised eyebrow.

“Good deduction, although you missed several obvious things.”

“Thank you. Git.”

“Still...arousing. Could I interest you in some kitchen table sex?”

John laughed. “Um, no. There are too many chemicals there. It can’t be sanitary.”

Sherlock grinned openly, and turned back to his microscope. John went to him to press a kiss into his hair before starting the kettle.

“I’m making you an omelette,” he said. Sherlock gave a noncommittal grunt. “Could you move the toxic substances, please?”

“There is empty counter space. You don’t need to slice vegetables on the kitchen table.”

“No, I don’t, but I want to face you while I do.”

Sherlock sighed and shifted a few bottles to the floor. John pushed the remaining clutter to either end of the table, clearing a spot for the cutting board. He eyed a tall metal stand that had a test-tube clamped to it, but decided to leave it where it stood. Although the test tube did contain blood, at least it was only half-full and well out of the way of the food.

They shared companionable silence for a few moments. Sherlock switched from slide to slide, prodding and refocusing and taking notes. John methodically chopped half an onion and a pepper that was beginning to spoil. He felt Sherlock’s eyes on him as he poured the egg into a pan on the stove. When the omelette was almost ready, he shifted the pan back and forth, then flipped the omelette into the air.

“Oh shit,” It went a bit higher than he intended, and not in a straight line. He took a step back to catch it, inadvertently jerking his elbow and knocking the stand on the table. The test tube was knocked loose, falling directly into the bowl of remaining egg.

John stood still and stared at the cloud of red spreading through his breakfast. He took three very slow, calm breaths before looking up at Sherlock, who was leaning over the table eagerly to have a look.

“Sherlock. Are you aware that there is a difference between a kitchen and a bloody laboratory?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, please. That was your own fault. Just because you saw it on that Oliver show doesn’t mean you’re capable of—”

“Jamie Oliver. And Sherlock, it is not my fault that there was a tube of human blood in our cooking area.”

“That was pig’s blood actually.”

“How many times have I asked you to clean this table?”

“I told you, it wouldn’t have been a problem if you could just control your urge to show off for me.”

“This isn’t funny, Sherlock.”

“I didn’t say it was, I’m simply—”

“Clean. The goddamn. Table.”

“Ooo...you know I love that tone of voice. It’s hardly a deterrent.”

John rolled his eyes, turned away abruptly, and wet a sponge from the sink.

“Order me to do something else,” Sherlock purred, his microscope apparently forgotten.

John fought away a grin before turning back around to clean splattered egg off the table.

“What has gotten into you this morning?”

“Not sure. Must be the allure of your omelette flipping skills.”

John gave a long-suffering sigh as Sherlock patiently watched him wipe up the mess. When both the table and bowl had been cleaned and sanitized, John threw away the now-bloodied sponge and put both hands on the table, leaning over to look Sherlock in the eye.

“If you don’t clear off this table, omelette-flipping skills be damned, I will withhold sex for an entire month.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “No sex for a month? Is this supposed to be punishment for me or for you?”

John gave a sarcastic smile. “Oh, cocky, are we? You think you can go without sex for a whole month?”

“You underestimate me, John. I went without sex for thirty-four years before you came along.”

John averted his eyes and blushed slightly, the way he always did when Sherlock brought up this fact. He would sometimes bring it up just to see John’s cheeks turn pink. He also knew it was the most effective way to completely diffuse what was left of John’s anger.

“That doesn’t count, Sherlock. And I know you, when you want something, you want it right away and you always get it. Sex is no different.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?”

“Uh no.” John went to the refrigerator for more eggs. “Just clear the table, love.”

 

\---

After a long, leisurely breakfast, John went out to do some shopping. He had asked Sherlock to come along, but Sherlock had said that there was a chemical reaction he was waiting for, and it was really imperative for him to stay home and keep an eye on his Petri dishes.

One errand had led to another, and finally, it was one in the afternoon before John arrived back home. When he kicked open the door, both hands being occupied by shopping bags, Sherlock was sleeping on the sofa with his suit jacket over his face. John rolled his eyes and took the bags into the kitchen. Without looking, he set one bag on the edge of the table and pushed the clutter back with his arm. He suddenly felt something very wet on his hand.

“Oh, fuck!” he jumped back, accidentally knocking over the bag and spilling its contents all over the floor. A dozen eggs crashed to the linoleum.

“What have you done now?” Sherlock stood in the entryway, rubbing at one eye, sleepily.

“What the hell just spilled on my hand?” John looked at his hand, then shook it frantically. ‘My fingers are going numb!”

Sherlock walked closer, peeking around John to look at the tipped bottle behind him. “Ah,” he said. “Lidocaine, of course.”

John stared at him. “Lidocaine?”

“Mmm.”

“On our kitchen table?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Sherlock, did I not ask you this morning to clean up your mess?”

Sherlock looked at John with mild confusion. “You ask me that all the time. I didn’t know it was a serious request.”

John sighed and went to the sink to rinse off his hand. He wrung it back and forth, then looked down at the spilled food on the floor in front of him. One dozen eggs were ruined, and two bags of frozen vegetables and a loaf of bread were now lying in the mess. John looked back up.

“It is always a serious request when I ask you to do something. And for whatever reason, when it comes to cleaning the kitchen table, you never, ever do it."

Sherlock shrugged and put on his best sheepish facial expression. "I'm sorry," he said. "If I had known it bothered you so much, I would have-"

"Sherlock, I'm not a fool. Don't placate me."

Sherlock crossed his arms, his expression returning to normal. "Well what do you want from me then? You wanted it clean, it's not clean. I'll get to it eventually. "

“Will you clean it by the end of the day?” asked John. “Please?” Sherlock didn’t respond. “Sherlock, I know you don’t see the value in a clean table, but it’s not just about the table. It’s about respect. First of all, this is both of our living area, and I would like to use the table sometimes without worrying about what’s been on it. Second of all, you keep telling me that you’ll clean it, and then you never follow through. You don’t listen to me.”

Sherlock pulled John closer, taking his hand and wrapping one arm around his waist. “I apologize,” he said. “I do listen, I just get...easily distracted.”

“Will you clear the table by the end of the day?” asked John. Sherlock nodded. “Promise?”

“Yes, John, I promise.” He rubbed at John’s knuckles. “Now since your fingers are already numb, do you mind if I do some tests on your hand?”

John chuckled and leaned down the rest his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You are incorrigible.”

 

\---

The final straw came late that night, when John returned home from having drinks with Lestrade.

The door to the flat was locked, which was unusual, but not enough to cause alarm. When John tried to open it, the door seemed stuck. He struggled with it for a bit, hearing sudden footsteps and clattering from inside.

"Sherlock?" John called. "What's wrong with the door? Can you let me in?" Sherlock didn't answer, though John could hear him moving about. "Sherlock?”

John gave the door a hard shove, and it flung open. He stumbled a few steps into the flat, and saw purple footprints in the sitting room. He held his breath and stepped into the kitchen.

Sherlock was frantically scrubbing at the kitchen table. Though it was clear of clutter, it was covered in purple paint. John spotted at least four different shades of it, dripping onto the floor and splattered on various surfaces around the room. Sherlock looked up, his eyes wide and nervous. He had changed out of his suit, and was wearing only a pair of pyjama bottoms. His chest was smeared with paint, and there were spots of it on his face and bare feet.

There were five long seconds of still quiet before John spoke.

"Sherlock...what happened?"

"John, I swear I will clean it, I was working on cleaning it just now and I swear if you give me just one hour, I'll—"

“I asked you twice today to—”

“I said I’m working on it!”

“This is absolutely ridiculous. What the hell—"

"I told you, I'm going to clean it!” Sherlock's last reserve of patience seemed to have run out. "I just need a moment!”

John shook his head and surveyed the damage. There was a faint smear on the refrigerator that Sherlock seemed to have already scrubbed, and two cabinets were covered in purple fingerprints. The trash bin was pulled out into the middle of the room, filled with stained rags. “I can’t believe I live like this.” he said. “I am the only person I know who would put up with something like this, day after day.”

Sherlock scowled, theatrically. “Oh yes, as if you never do anything wrong. You’re such the martyr.”

“And what do I do that even approaches this level of insanity?”

“You leave dirty mugs all over the sitting room. You leave the telly on when you’re not even watching it.”

“That is nothing, Sherlock. Nothing, compared to—”

“You put extra blankets on the bed when you know it makes me too hot, you use the last of my shampoo without telling me—”

“That happened once!”

“You burn the toast practically every morning, you never put the cap back on the toothpaste, and you always track footprints all over the floor because it’s too much of a hassle for you to take off your muddy shoes. So don’t flatter yourself, John, because you’re hardly the ideal husband!” Sherlock paused after the last sentence, running through what he had just said in his head.

“Did you just call me your husband?” asked John.

“Um...I meant flatmate. Lover? Partner?”

They looked at each other in silence, then found it too awkward to maintain eye contact. John looked around the room as Sherlock shifted from foot to foot, anxiously.

Finally, John sighed. “I’m going to bed. Just...please have this cleaned up by morning.”

Sherlock glanced quickly up at John, then looked back down at the table. John started toward the bedroom. Halfway down the hall, he realized he was tracking a smudge of purple paint across the tile. He took off his shoes and left them at the side of the hallway before going into the bathroom to brush his teeth.

 

\---

John woke up sometime after midnight. The bedroom was silent and dark, and he noticed immediately that he was alone. He turned on the lamp on the bedside table and sat up, looking around the empty room and debating whether or not to go find Sherlock. Maybe if he just went back to sleep, everything would be better in the morning. Sometimes Sherlock just needed time to brood. Looking down at the bed sheets, John noticed a small smudge of purple paint on the edge. He sighed and got up to go into the kitchen.

The kitchen was spotless, though it smelled distinctly of turpentine. Sherlock had left the window open to flush out the smell, and a gentle night-time breeze drifted through, making the room feel calm and almost supernatural. John continued on to the sitting room, expecting to find Sherlock on the sofa. He felt a twinge of worry when that room was empty, as well. He went to the window purely out of habit and looked down to the empty street. When he turned back around, he noticed Sherlock’s coat hanging up by the door. Sherlock hadn’t left the building. There was only one place left to look. John walked up the stairs to his former bedroom.

Sherlock was curled up under the covers of John's old bed, his back to the door, and his phone in one hand. John walked over to stand by the side of the bed.

“What are you doing in my room?” he asked, softly.

There were a few moments of silence before Sherlock answered. “Sleeping."

“With your phone?”

“I was curious about the distillation process used to make turpentine.” Sherlock tapped his phone and held it up to show John a website describing a step-by-step process and several diagrams.

John toyed with the edge of the blanket. “Why are you in my old bed?"

Sherlock didn’t answer. John stared down at him, all nerves and tense muscles, curled into the foetal position. There was still a smudge of purple paint on the back of his neck. John pulled back the covers and curled up to lay behind Sherlock. He licked his thumb and rubbed away the paint.

“Sherlock, I love you,” he said. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s middle. “You know that’s not going to change just because of a silly argument about the kitchen table?”

“Don’t be stupid, I know that.”

“I don’t know that you do.” Sherlock gave an indignant huff and didn’t respond. John smiled. “Turn around.”

Sherlock shoved his phone under the pillow and rolled over onto his side so that they were facing each other. John pushed his hair away from his eyes and smoothed a thumb over his cheekbone.

“I am not going to stop loving you. Probably ever. And when we are old and grey and you are keeping your silly bees and I am tending to your inevitable bee stings, and you are still leaving the kitchen table a mess...I will still love you.”

Sherlock tore his gaze away from John’s, his expression somewhere between confused and relieved. John pushed his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and pulled him forward, kissing him slow and languid. Sherlock tangled a fist in the hem of John’s shirt.

There was a night-time chill to the air. John pulled the blankets up over Sherlock’s shoulders as Sherlock moved to lay on top of him. Their kisses started soft and slow, then became deeper and wetter. Sherlock rolled his hips against John, and they both gasped at the brush of friction. John smoothed his hands down Sherlock’s back, over his arse and the backs of his thighs.

“You taste like toothpaste,” Sherlock murmured.

“I remembered to put the cap back on.” John smiled at the unintended roughness in his voice. “Is that not the sexiest thing I’ve ever said to you?”

Sherlock chuckled against John’s mouth and kissed him again. John gently rolled him to the side and reversed their positions. Sherlock ran his hands up John’s bare arms.

“Ah, there’s something else you do that bothers me,” he said.

John frowned. “What?”

“You wear these threadbare t-shirts around the flat when you know precisely what they do to me.”

John laughed and tugged off his t-shirt, tossing it over the side of the bed. “Oh, you do worse.” He slid a hand under Sherlock’s shirt and ran his nails lightly down Sherlock’s chest. “I can barely look at you in that purple shirt without getting hard. And you wear that outside the flat.”

“Maybe I wear it because I want you to get hard.”

John braced his arms on either side of Sherlock’s head and tangled both hands into his curls. He brushed his mouth against Sherlock’s teasingly, but didn’t kiss him. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John’s as if he could pull them closer together.

“You also pout your lips when you don’t get your way,” continued John. “I hate it because it’s maddeningly sexy.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “You practically fellate water bottles whenever you drink from them. It’s distracting.”

“I’ve caught you staring at my arse in public on more than one occasion. Also distracting.”

“You carry lube in the inside breast pocket of your jacket.”

John laughed. “I thought we were listing things we hate?”

“I hate that I know it’s there. I can’t think when I know it’s there.”

John rolled to the side and shifted down so that he could nestle his face into Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock smelled overwhelmingly of the overpriced lavender soap that John always teased him about. Underneath the lavender was a slight hint of turpentine. John smiled and pressed kisses into Sherlock’s neck. He held him closely, dipping one hand under Sherlock’s shirt to run over his skin. He traced Sherlock’s spine, then hesitated as he felt a large burn scar at the small of his back. He outlined its shape with his fingertips.

“You always manage to get yourself into dangerous situations that make me worry about you," he whispered. “If there’s one thing in the world that I hate, it’s that.”

Sherlock lifted his hand to trace over a similar burn scar on John's side. “You always come after me when I do. If there’s one thing in the world that I both hate and love...”

They looked at each other wordlessly for a moment, then leaned in at the same time to kiss.

The kiss was more tender and thoughtful than heated. Sherlock ground his hips into John’s once more, but it was a lazy and half-hearted gesture. They kept tasting each other mouths and drawing tongues back and forth, reaching and curling and pulling back in a steady volley. They shared warmth and wet and the taste of toothpaste. When the kiss broke, John smiled, then brought one hand up to cup the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock kept his eyes closed.

“Thank you for cleaning off the table,” said John. Sherlock opened his eyes halfway and pressed another slow kiss to John’s mouth. “Are you tired?”

Sherlock gave a half-shrug. His eyes were heavy and his breathing was growing deeper.

“That would be a ‘yes,’” John said with a smile. “Must have been all that cleaning. Time for sleep, I think.”

Sherlock made a disapproving sound of protest. He didn't have the coordination to kiss properly anymore, instead smooshing his lips against John's in a lazy parody of a kiss. John chuckled, but obliged him. He kissed Sherlock until Sherlock was completely still, his breaths coming slowly and deeply. It was only a matter of time before John fell asleep as well, his forehead touching Sherlock's, their legs tangled together under the covers.

 

\---

The kitchen table stayed clean for about a day. The next time John asked Sherlock to clean it, Sherlock obliged immediately, and was rewarded with a particularly brilliant smile from John, and a more-spectacular-than-usual blowjob. Afterwards, Sherlock began to purposefully make more of a mess around the flat than usual, just so that he could clean up immediately when John asked, and be rewarded for his efforts. If John caught onto this, he didn’t say anything to change it.


End file.
